


History from Below

by lolcano



Series: We Need New Stories [2]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Thor (Movies)
Genre: Gen, Post-Thor: Ragnarok (2017), life of an ordinary asgardian citizen, they are still dealing with some loss and trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-01
Updated: 2018-03-01
Packaged: 2019-03-25 19:13:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13841217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lolcano/pseuds/lolcano
Summary: The story of some ordinary joe schmoes aboard the ship right after Thor:Ragnorok. (Let's say that the end credit scene did not happen) Here's to the common folk!





	History from Below

She found herself unable to sit still. Every day she would walk through the ship. She would walk through the winding corridors at a breakneck speed that others had difficulty keeping up with. At first Olga would come with her but the briskness of the pace Gudrid set at last deterred her. And so Gudrid was left alone on her walks. She was grateful for that. Olga didn't get it, really. Olga wouldn't understand why she had to keep walking, why she had to whisk through the corridors in a whirl of silk so quickly that her surroundings were nothing but a blur. She walked fast so she couldn't see the cold industrial edges of the spaceship, the dreary dripping artificial light that fell angularly over the pale empty hallways. She walked fast so that all that would disappear and all she had, all she was, was the beat of her heart and the movement of her legs, one foot in front of the other, moving, onwards and onwards and onwards without ever looking back.

Every morning she did this, and once every afternoon. She had grown accustomed to walking in the mornings, rising before the light of dawn and walking through the streets of Asgard in the rising golden light. If she closed her eyes she could still see it. Honey-coloured buildings sweeping past her, drowned in darkness fading into dawn. Up the little alleyway and through the market which was boarded up and silent although soon it would not be, and up into the main streets of the city with their silver piping vaulting upwards into the sky slowly turning gold, through the side passages with their arches and carvings whose forms she could still feel on her fingertips, the roughness of the stone, the little carved lion she passed by everyday, its maw contorted into a ferocious grimace, carved into that funny, picturesque little stone archway she had found so quaintly squeezed within the more modern part of the city, and when she looked up there in that spaceship she almost expected to see it but of course it was not, and her breath shortened and she forced herself to keep walking to keep walking faster and faster, because the act of walking itself was the only thing that remained.

Ingrid had often said, when she arrived flushed and shivering at the bakery on a cold winter day, "Why not move closer?" But it had been too late for that. She could not move closer any more than she could cut off a limb. The steps had become a repetition engrained in her heart. How quickly things become routine. You remember it not with your mind but also your body. You no longer see it, because you know it. Step by step the ground infuses itself into your soul, it becomes overlaid with traces of you. The place becomes part of the rhythm of your body. You are its rhythm. You participate in its being, its breath and its life, it is in you and you in it.

And so even the ship became familiar. She began to enjoy lounging in the strange sofas arranged in the common area, regardless (or because of?) their obnoxiously bright colours and unconventional shapes. She was mystified by the tacky chandeliers that looked like giant pulsating balls of light and slowly they entranced her. She found her eyes tracing the bold coloured lines that intersected at odd angles the white corridors. She began to enjoy her walks, not just in themselves, but for the twists and turns of the hallways that grew familiar to her.

And everyday she would see an old man in the corner of the dormitory looking over a book close to tears.

What could that book be about, she wondered, that inspired in him such sadness?

\------------------

Bjorn was not so much sad that the palace was destroyed; he had found the whole thing rather drafty anyways. As for the rest of the city, he didn’t care much about that either. He never went out in the streets these days, it was far too noisy. He didn't like the countryside either. All in all, good riddance! It was the library that he was crying about.

He had loved that library with all his heart. He had loved the rows of manuscripts ascending upwards, colourful rows spiralling upwards like a bifrost of books, a rainbow bridge into a million different worlds. He loved that musty smell of old novels, the resin from the rich mahogany tables which reflected the flickering lamplight, the way the parchment felt against his skin; vellum or paper bound thickly in elaborate frames which felt weighty in his hands and the words which felt weighty in his heart. He would pile the table high with books, the table where she had also sat so long ago, her hair long and loose and glowing in the lamplight as it spilled like gold over the manuscripts piled high upon that table and her face had been so far away as she had worked, her face drawn with concentration, serene and beautiful, and how he had loved her when her face was like that. Every now and then he would pass by the shelf with her books, and he would pause for a minute and run his hand across the cover, he would hold it in his hands and read the words she had written and it was if he could catch a glimpse of her, the curve of her smile or the form of her body there in the curve and form the text, but alas, it was no more.

Because the library was gone! Gone, gone, utterly gone! The loss of Asgard was only a meagre thing in comparison. What did a city matter, a palace matter? They could be preserved in the stroke of a single word. Asgard dwelt within its texts and words, it was the heart and the memory of the people contained in their stories and legends, in the immaterial world of words. But he had forgotten that words too must have materiality. And now... "He looked out over the kingdom of Asgard, and behold, it was no more. Not a book remained, for all had been destroyed." The words from some ancient legend echoed in his heart. He was grateful for these words, words to understand his sorrow, words to speak what was unspeakable. Yet how could everything really be gone? Everything!? Yes, it truly was everything! No longer could he reach out and grasp a book and feel its heavy dusty weight within his hands. No longer would the little Aesir children read the great stories of their ancestors. Everything, reduced to ash! Everything, everything! All his wife's work! Destroyed, destroyed! It was like losing her all over again.

But what was he talking about, he tried to remind himself valiantly. One book remained! He had saved one! One book... He tried not to look at it. All that was left of the great library of Asgard, that great repository of knowledge! Only one book… He tried to comfort himself, that it was okay, that this was enough, but even so he knew it was a lie.

If he had stepped a little more carefully, on that fateful day... If his grip had been a little more firm. He can see the books falling, falling, from his grasp as if in slow motion. All the books he had taken from the Asgardian library that night before he had fled, gathered together haphazardly, more than one man could reasonably carry. If he had just been a little more discerning! They had fallen from him as he had ran, even so, hiding in that cavern he had comforted himself with that half-full sack of books, grateful for their existence. Even that had been better than just one. But then! The fateful moment. It all comes down to one moment, in the end. There on the Bifrost he stumbles and they fall. He can see them fallen beneath the feet of the others as they retreat from the soldiers, as they push and pull and body falls against body and they step over the books, his books, sprawled out over the bifrost, the only books left as his country is engulfed in flames! There is only time to grab one, only one, he snatches one single book from the ground, snatches from the jaws of death and he is pushed into the ship, he sees one last glimpse of Asgard, the ocean and the Bifrost, and then they are gone, gone into the stars. And as he stood there looking out at that red dot which had once been his home he glanced down at the title of the book, the last vestige of a once-great nation. The only book that remains of the library, that beautiful library, whom he had loved. There, scrawled out in a distinguished serif font were the words: "Species distribution modelling and kernel density analysis of benthic ecologically and biologically significant areas (EBSAs) and other benthic fauna in the Eastern Aesir Fjords".

Why?!

\--------------------------------

When Olga read the title of the book she nearly died from laughter. "K-kernel density?!" she hooted from in between great heaves of laughter, " _This_ is what you've been crying over, old man?" she said.

He looked at the floor and mumbled, "...wasn't paying attention... just grabbed the first book I saw...." or something like that. Gudrid thoughtfully handed him a hankerchief and he blew his nose loudly.

Olga tossed the book back on the table.

"Well, no need to waste your tears," she said, "It's not as if this is the only book in the world."

"But it is," he sniffed, "everything's been destroyed" and Olga just laughed.

"That's where you're wrong! Idiot! Do you think you're the only person in the world who owns a book or two?"

The man looked up at her, a faint spark seeming to appear in his eyes, and Olga smiled smugly.

"He who has ears let him hear," she proclaimed, "It just so happens I have brought with me three volumes of some of the finest works of Asgardian literature."

The words seemed to give new life to the man. "Truly?!" he cried, "Oh, if it really is true then I am..." He was too overcome to finish his sentence, and instead clasped her hands in his own gratefully, much to her displeasure.

"So what are they?" he continued anxiously, "A copy of 'The Ballad of Baldur' perhaps? Or the epic of Lord Harold? The legend of the Valkryie?"

"None of those," Olga said, carefully extracting her hands from his grasp, "Something even greater."

"Greater?"

"Yes, it's an anthology of poetry."

He still looked vaguely hopeful, but Olga soon delivered the finishing blow. "My own!" she said triumphantly.

"YOUR poetry!?" he exclaimed. He was horrified. Olga looked disinterested.

"Of course," she said, examining her painted fingernails, "I would risk my life for nothing less." She looked up and smiled at him side-long, as if daring him to object.

Gudrid watched them half bemused and half worried. Should she have really introduced these two? Olga could really be so insensitive. But she had been so curious...

"B-b-but..." sputtered the man. He was of the opinion that anything written in the last century was not really worthy of the title 'literature'. Literature had peaked during the time his wife had been alive, and after that it had only gone downhill. "Why do you even need a copy of your own work? If you wrote it once, surely you could write it down again!"

"Don't be absurd!" she shot back, "Why do you think I wrote it down in the first place? Poetry is ephemeral. I could never write the same thing I wrote in the past. That 'me' from back then is dead. Only these words remain, an epitaph."

"Oh no..." the man moaned. He fell back in his chair. "Then they really are lost, lost! All our great works of literature! Gone forever!"

"Oh please," scoffed Olga, "My stuff is as great a work of literature you'll ever read."

"But the great classics!"

"Those old things?" exlaimed Olga, "Out-dated! Old-fashioned! Reeking with toxic masculinity! My works are better."

Gudrid marvelled at her friend's audacity. It was this unyielding iconoclasm that had confirmed Olga's place as one of the leading poets on the Asgardian literary scene. She was not afraid to break things, the things which others held sacred; she was bold, fresh and utterly irreverent. And now she was on a roll. She stabbed the air with her finger, her posture triumphant, as she lectured the old man.

"This is a new era now, grandpa!" she said, stifling his indignant protests, "Asgard is gone! Burst into flames! We need new classics now. So I guess mine will have to do."

Although Gudrid did tend to agree, she was astonished nonetheless. How could she say such a thing? She couldn't believe how cruel she could be, how she could so casually bring up horrendous events as if they were nothing. Like what she had said about Gudrid's parents. Gudrid had hated her for that, for her callousness, for her ability to brush things aside and continue on as normal, as if none of it mattered. What did she know about her parents, about their lives, let alone their deaths? This old man too had gone through suffering, hadn't he? Then why was she speaking to him like that? Didn't she have any respect for tragedy? It was just like that night, only a week ago, really (had it really been so soon?) when Gudrid had come to her house and found her playing the lyre, lounging on her couch and singing, as if their kingdom wasn't being destroyed, as if Hela wasn't here, as if death itself did not reign over Asgard! Singing, her music flowing over streets streaming with blood.

"How can you?!" Gudrid had cried, "How can you?! Don't you care?" She was nearly in tears. She had just seen dead bodies in the street, real dead bodies, and here was Olga singing some cheerful tune like a street performer. She should be playing a dirge! Olga stopped strumming. She looked over her cynically.

"Why are you here Gudrid?" she asked at last and the silence trembled in the room. Why, why indeed? Why was she still here, when everything, everything else had gone? Why was she here, in this dreamscape, this hellscape, which surely must disappear in a moment? Why have you come Gudrid? Because she always came here, because she had no where else to go, because every week Olga would host all her friends in her salon and read poetry and her legs had carried her here without thinking, her dumb stupid legs who had not yet realized that everything was ruined, that nothing would ever be the same.

"I don't know," she whispered, "I don't know." She fell on to her knees and began to cry, great ugly sobs that would not stop.

"Why cry, oh white dove, why do you weep?" sang Olga, the words of an old folk tune, "Don't you know that you have wings?"

It was Olga who had suggested that they should leave, that they should escape the city while they still could. It was Olga who had forced her to leave behind her parents and said "Old fools! They'll die here!" and Gudrid had been so mad at her then, furious at her even though (perhaps because) she had been right, they had chosen to stay and burn in their own house rather than to leave.

And then again, it had been Olga had gathered her up in her arms and said it would be all right, who told her that the past was dead and it was time to move on, that everything would be fine. Would it? Could it ever really be fine? She didn't believe and yet just then it didn't even matter, she buried her head into Olga's shoulder and cried and she could feel her bones on her cheek, so narrow and fragile and yet so unbearably strong. Yes, there was a wonderful reliability in Olga's callousness, and even a certain amount of kindness. It was the same sort of kindness which had brought her to this old man and caused her to berate him, comforting him in her own strange way.

And somehow, much to Gudrid's suprise, it even seemed to be working. The man seemed more angry now than sorrowful, debating ferociously with Olga the merits of the great classics which are "great for a reason" he sniffed, and haughtily told Olga that her works probably wouldn't be relevant for even a month. His eyes flashed and Gudrid could catch a glimpse of what he must have been as a youth, young and strong and passionate.

What sort of life had he led, in his past? she wondered all of a sudden. She suddenly wanted to know this so terribly much, who he had been, what had brought him to this place? She wanted to ask him. Olga would never ask about such things. Olga wouldn't understand. She was able to put everything behind her, to stride forward boldly without looking at the past, but no matter how she tried, Gudrid could not be like that. The past was something she kept returning to with both body and soul. It's memory was engrained in her. She didn't want to forget the past. She didn't want to move on; she wanted to linger in that rhythm that beat within her heart, she wanted to hold on to it, tightly, to breath in its scent, hold it close to her forever. She wanted to walk through the pathways of memory forever. Was that wrong? No no, it didn't have to be. Perhaps it was necessary.

"What's your name?" she asked impetuously, interrupting their argument. His face had been turning red as Olga prattled on and on and he had been about to unleash some erudite point when Gudrid interrupted him. He stood there for a moment foolishly, his mouth gaping open, before registering what she had said.

"Bjorn," he said, "That's my name."

"What did you do, back in Asgard?" She took his hands in her own and spoke to him earnestly, almost desperately, "Please tell me about yourself!" And he obliged. She listened to him as he spoke about his life, a long life, a life of sorrow and loss, but also beauty, about a beautiful library full of books. Olga listened too, pretending not to be interested but drawn in nonetheless.

Gudrid was silent at the end. "What a life you have led..." she whispered, "All of us... have led such ... and I wish..." Tears began to stream down her face again. She was crying again! But then, what was wrong with it? She was tired of walking and walking away so fast as if she could outrun grief. She couldn't! "I wish it weren't all ruined!"

"But you know," whispered the man bravely, through quiet tears of his own, "If it hadn't all been ruined, then I wouldn't have met such beautiful ladies!" and she laughed at that.

"Olga, you're right too," said Gudrid, and reached out for Olga's hand. They sat there together in the corner of the ship holding on to each other. "You're right of course," continued Gudrid, "it's time for new stories. But I don't want to forget, I don't want to forget our past, I don't want to forget the way we have lived up until now. It's too important to me."

For once Olga was silent. She frowned, then finally squeezed her friends hand. "Yes, of course," she said, "I don't mean..." She sighed, exasperated.

"Everything's gone," continued Gudrid, "It feels so strange because it's not gone, it's still inside of us. We can feel it inside of us, so how come we don't have it anymore? How can we believe it's really gone when it's still written in our hearts?"

"Yes," said the old man, "Yes," and there was nothing more that could be said but in that single word there was a trembling understanding.

"How poetic…," said Olga, almost sarcasticly but with a certain amount of genuine awe in her voice, "You should write that all down."

Ah there that was again, that old argument of theirs. But maybe she had a point.

"Maybe I will," says Gudrid, "Maybe I will write it down. We all should. Memories... they don't last forever. One day we'll wake up and it will seem to us as if this life is normal. It'll seem to us as if this is how we've always lived. We'll forget our homeland, our beautiful city, everything about where we came from, unless we write it all down."

"Some sort of history book...?" mused Bjorn.

"Not just history!" she said, "Everything! Everything! The sum of all our knowledge, all our memories. We should all gather together, write down all our memories..."

"We can fill a whole new library," says Bjorn, a new light and excitement dawning in his face.

"Yes, yes!" said Gudrid, "And a hundred years from now, they'll read our words. They'll read our words and know that we once lived in a place called Asgard, and that it was beautiful."

"And," added Olga, "they'll know more about benthic fauna than anybody ever needed to know."

And that is how the Great Compendium of Knowledge came to be written. It was an encyclopedia containing the entire sum of knowledge of the people of the Asgardian diaspora. All the people on the ship contributed, whether it was information about how circuits worked, or bread-making. It contained everything from old folk tales and famous works of literature recreated from memory, to technical reports on magic and medicine. And so it lasted for hundreds generations, long after these three people ceased to exist in this world.

**Author's Note:**

> But do they even have paper readily available on this spaceship? And for that matter, if Asgard is supposedly so technologically advanced, why are they relying upon such primitive technologies as paper? Do they not have information storage devices that someone could have brought along? Maybe they do, I don't know. In another version of this story I had Gudrid bringing along an information crystal thing but it never ended up coming up. Oh well.
> 
> In any case, thank you so much for reading this silly story of mine


End file.
